His Sweet Affliction
by Dimas
Summary: Octavian often thought that he too had an affliction. But unlike many others, it felt burdensome and sweet at the same time: his wayward love for his own sister. Octavian/Octavia. Set during the events of late Season 1. Story rating might go up later. Warning: contains incest and references to Greco-Roman mythology.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Rome.

—

CHAPTER 1

Attention had gone back to Caesar as the triumphant leader proceeded to talk about some of the reforms he was planning to enact. Reclining on her couch, Atia reached out to pick up a grape. The smug expression on her face indicated that the evening was going fine. The symposium hosted in her house went on in the dim light of candles and oil lamps. In a distant corner of the spacious room, a young slave played a lyre. The instrument's soft melody mingled with the thoughtful words muttered by some of the most important people of Rome, shaping the symposium's special atmosphere. The party was both serious and relaxed at the same time, just as the hostess whose hair was as fiery as her character wanted it to be. She picked the grape from the bowl, one of several that stood on the table in front of them, giving them an array of fruit to choose from. The small green berry disappeared in her mouth several moments later.

Octavian knew that his mother, regardless of her scheming, had little understanding of the administrative aspects of running Rome. She seemed to support her revered uncle in everything, even though she was, foremost, driven by personal motives. She loved her influence that was to grow as Caesar tightened his rule over the Republic. But even in those moments, as she reclined on a couch right next to the one taken by her uncle, her features could barely conceal her boredom. Such in-depth discussions about the processes that covered the daily operation of the vast mechanism that was the Roman Republic were beyond her interest and attention.

The young man's gaze slid to another female figure. Servilia silently sat beside her son; her disinterested gaze seemed to be pointed into nowhere. She did not care about this discussion either—or at least, she did not care because Caesar was the one speaking that moment.

Octavian slowly turned back to his great-uncle. Gaius Julius Caesar, the conqueror of Gaul and the victor of the war against the Optimates, sat at the very heart of the symposium, talking to the co-consul of the Republic. Though he had almost become a type of semi-legendary figure among the commoners of Rome, Caesar did not seem to be a particularly imposing figure. He was certainly not Alexander the Great. Octavian was certain that had the mighty king of Macedon of old times had been present in Atia's house, he would have held himself in a more daunting manner. Yes, Caesar shone with the radiance of power and pride. Like the sun, he let those around him bask in these rays. But calling him imposing in form or facial features was an overstatement even though the masses saw him in a different light.

Caesar could win a battle against impossible odds and have the boundless love of the people. These were some of the things that made him so great and special.

But there was something none of those present in the room, sans Caesar and his nephew, knew of one grim truth. Even a great man could suffer from a terrible affliction. Caesar's bane was the seizures of epilepsy that could grip the whole of his being for several minutes.

The young man moved his shoulders uncomfortably as he thought of something that had a habit of coming to his mind quite often. Often, Octavian thought that he too suffered from an affliction. But this was a secret none of those present in the room knew.

As if it had been given free will, Octavian's gaze quickly traveled aside before stopping at the sight that pleased him most in that room.

She had been sitting in her place silently throughout the whole evening. Just as the two other females in presence, she had drifted away from the boring matter, but unlike Atia and Servilia, Octavia never cared about power and influence. She too sat there with almost an emotionless expression. But it was only for the evening. She was not always like that; she was lively and emotional.

The young woman was slim and fresh and delicate. One look at her made Octavian's heart pound faster, and no matter how painful it felt, Octavian knew he was not permitted to marvel at her for more than several seconds; somebody could notice the unusual look he was giving his sister. But it was enough, so when he turned away her lovely image was there before him like a fresco.

Then his mind wandered somewhere else. He felt as if he approached the bank of Lethe, the great River of Time. Step after step, he walked further into the stream until the waters enveloped him, the currents sweeping him away into the past.

—

Seven-year old Octavian tightly gripped his tiny hands into the cover as he crouched atop his bed. He shuddered almost as if he was exposed to the cold winds that ravaged the lands to the north of Italy during winter. He looked into the darkness, the clout that shrouded the room in the night. His eyes wide, he dared not to blink.

The darkness was sinister in its all-presence and silence. It unnerved him and made him tremble. Little Octavian disliked it, he feared it.

The boy's attention bolted to the side as he thought he caught something move with a corner of his eye. The darkness was just as silent, but he thought it was likely that some shadowy figure was frolicking in the far corners of the large room, using the night as its cloak.

Octavian shivered even more. He was certain: the shadowy figure was staring at him through the dark, its full attention on the boy's frightened form. Octavian could not tell what part of night it was; he had woken up from sleep. It was quite likely that midnight had come, and it was known that at this time all the dark entities that were spawned by Night eons ago, ugly in appearance and malevolent in character, left Tartarus to appear wherever they wanted: at cemeteries, at the crossroads, even at people's households.

He tried peering deeper into the darkness in hopes of finding out whether there was any danger. To his own continuing horror he thought he distinguished a silhouette in the shadows. He recognized the figure as a female one, clad in a stolla and with hair kept up in the standard Roman feminine style. But Octavian was sure he knew she was…the Lamia.

It was said that the Lamia was a vile spirit that came to households in the den of the night in search of children that she could devour.

Instinctively, Octavian bolted out of his bed and dashed out of the room, fleeing as fast as he can. He did not turn back, fearing that he would see the female shadow gliding in his trail. A pair of tears sliding down his face, he ran down the corridor. He did not pull into Mother's room. He knew Mother did not like his displays of fear; she would simply bark at him and drag him back to his room against his will, ignorant of the threat of the vile spirits of the night.

Instead, he bolted into the nearby room. He practically leaped into the bed that stood in the room, burying himself under the covers and clinging tightly to the one who calmly slept there. Exposed to the warmth and softness of the figure beside him, Octavian immediately felt at ease. He knew he would be safe; the demons that frolicked in the night did not attack groups of people.

"Gaius?" Octavian heard a sleepy voice as the 13-year old girl shifted and sat up.

She looked down at him with her bright eyes filled with care.

"I saw a strange shadow," Octavian whispered, looking straight at her, "in my room, it had the appearance of a woman."

The girl lightly shook her head in amusement, smiling pleasantly.

"Silly brother," she said with a slightest hue of insult, "there was nothing there. You were just imagining things," she assured him softly.

"But…"

"Don't worry," Octavia said, nesting back into bed; she wrapped her hands around him and pressed her brother tightly to her, "everything's alright.'

The small kiss she planted on his cheek did the best to assure him of this.

Bathing in her warmth, Octavian felt not only safety. He felt a type of comfort that nobody else could provide him with.

—

He remained at the symposium until it ended. After that, Atia, being the gracious hostess that she was supposed to be, bid farewell to each of her departing guests, even those she disliked, such as Servilia.

After the guests left, the house fell into the silence of late night. Octavian retreated back to his room. There, surrounded by candles and scrolls, he felt himself especially comfortable.

The lights of candles blazed in their dozens around him as he read as he laid a parchment containing the poetry of Catullus on his table. He had read these verses before and he knew he would be reading them again and again in the future. The poet had praised love and had sung hymns to his beloved in such a refined manner that the celebrated feeling acquired even more in its immortal essence.

Octavian was young; he wrote poetry of his own, including those praising love. His love poems too were dedicated to someone very special, the woman he loved, the woman who played a bigger role in his life than she knew. But nobody else had had a chance to read these verses even though the sweet name of the woman that inspired him remained a mystery.

And there were good reasons to keep it that way. After all, how would his mother react if she ever found out that the woman he loved and desired so much was his own sister, Octavia? And what if Octavia found out the same?

It was a very awkward experience. On one hand, he knew it was wrong. The moral codes of Rome and the writings of the great thinkers—all denounced the kind of love he felt for her. At the same time, it was love, living and authentic, and love felt sweet no matter how wayward it was.

He did not know when the love he had for her turned and started flowing in this unnatural current. Maybe he was simply unable to remember? She had been his ideal for years; he thought he could trace the roots back to his childhood.

Even during the two years he had spent at the academy of Mediolan, Octavia had been the one he had thought and dreamt about most often. And it was her embrace, soft and warm, that he had eagerly strove for on his way back to Rome.

Octavia was graceful and gentle, caring and intelligent. Moreover, in Octavian's eyes her neither Lavinia nor Helen of Troy would have been able to rival her in beauty.

It was said that epilepsy was a bane sent by Phoebus. That was Caesar's affliction. Octavian's affliction was different in its nature; if it had come as punishment from above, then Venus was the one who put it on him. The young man believed that both he and his uncle had received their banes unjustly, but his was the worse of the two. Caesar's malady would strike and retreat for a time whilst Octavian's burden always felt heavy on his spirit.

In some sense, Octavia was the Daphne to his Apollo. He could not have her no matter how much he wanted her. Octavian's rational side wanted to chastise him for harboring such feelings; but the love-struck youth in him complained to himself about what he saw as injustice. He reminded him that it was not lust that drove him, but genuine love, love no different than the one Orpheus, the greatest of singers and musicians, had for Eurydice. And in that moment the young man could only confess to himself what his biggest dream was…

Octavian leaned back into his chair. Slowly, he brought a hand to his head; it felt like his head was about to start spinning from all these mental debates inside his head.

If he had had a chance to exchange this affliction for Caesar's, he would have done it with gratitude. This one was too hard to bear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: This chapter contains major spoilers for Season 1 episode Utica.

—

CHAPTER 2

Galatea.

Octavian could barely resist whispering this name under his breath. The young man gazed at his sister as if he was mesmerized. He was seeing not just a woman, but an incarnation of beauty. Her complexion was fair. Her long locks were as lush as nature in spring. Her figure was slender and her features petite. Octavia could have been a piece of art: a marble statue, elegant and precious, like those made by Athenian sculptors in the time of the city's prime. It was not hard to imagine one of the Graces or even Venus herself coming up to the figure of silent marble, putting a touch on her fine-looking shoulder, breathing life into her, making those beautiful eyes gleam, making that lovely figure make her first refined step.

A gush of wind strolled though Atia's lavish garden. It went past the line of busts, the stone-clad reminders of the household's ancestors. It paid a visit to the garden beds, seeking to discover the smell of the various plants and flowers that grew there, making their sterns and bulbs shiver in its presence. It reached for the yellow, sphere-shaped peaches that grew on the tree. The wind did not gather harvest, but it did make the leaves and branches shake under its touch. Then it traveled forward, further into great Rome, towards the city's hills, markets, dwellings of Patricians and the Plebs, the Forum.

But even the wind noticed the charm of the young woman who was leisurely resting on the bronze-fitted couch in the garden. Lightly swooping around her, it gently stroked her hair and made it tingle in its currents. Octavia did not notice its display of affection. She was sleeping soundly, emancipated from everything that was going on within the walls of the house, at least for the time being. Accepting the lack of reaction, the wind went on its way. Perhaps, it would return some other time and find out her response.

Octavian was left alone with her. He remained silent, not wishing to break her slumber. But he did come closer with a wish to get an even better glimpse of her.

Octavian could have sworn that the sight before his eyes was changing. He imagined a different picture. Now, there was no garden anymore. He was somewhere in a lush grove, maybe even in the vicinity of Parnas mountain, the abode of Phoebus and the Muses. He now saw Octavia sleeping just as calmly underneath a tree beside a spring like a Nymph. She should have been a Nymph; she had the beauty of one and the tranquility of the groves of Greece would have been closer to her than the merciless atmosphere of mighty Rome.

But he quickly turned back towards reality. They were back in the garden, but the sight before his eyes was almost as idyllic.

She was so precious. Octavian wanted to kneel beside the couch and cover her with kisses: to plant his kisses on her forehead and cheeks, on her neck and her lips. He wanted to behold her reaction; he wanted to see her smile delicately in her dream. Octavian felt a tiny flame, a small blaze of an oil lamp, warm him from the inside as these thoughts glided in his mind.

He knew he was not supposed to think of such things. He knew he should not have felt this. But, still, he did.

Despite the same voices, he thought how nice it would have been to have Octavia as his wife. He thought about it even at that very moment. Like a man who had been stripped of his senses, he found both torment and bliss in these thoughts. This wish went against the values of Rome's moral laws. He knew that and he was ready to condemn himself for this. But then his imagination again drifted sideways. He could see Octavia as his spouse, presiding over a symposium held in their by his side. And the radiance of the flame inside him became even warmer.

But they were in Rome, so the image that stood in his eyes was destined to remain a dream in the middle of the day. The inner flame suddenly became weaker, its blaze no longer able to warm his spirit.

Octavian suddenly found a need to take a seat. Luckily, there was another couch standing beside the one Octavia had occupied.

Sometimes, he thought that the Fates were playing a never-ending joke on him. The young man melancholically looked at the object of his desire.

So peaceful, so beautiful.

To his calamity, he was Atia's son. Had he been born to Caesar and Calpurnia, perhaps everything would have gone in a different way. Who knew, maybe Atia herself would have tried to forge a stronger link between the Julii and the Octavii. Siblings were forbidden to marry under Roman law, but the law was different regarding cousins…

He made a desperate attempt to block these thoughts out of his mind. His fantasies were as lost as a harvest that had been destroyed by a draught. They were not leading him anywhere. He had to stop thinking about it…about her.

The next several days passed without any divergences from his normal routines. He continued to study the ways and the terms of the pontiffs. When he was not doing that, he indulged into the writings of philosophers and historians, both Greek and Roman. And of course, he allowed himself to keep his gaze on Octavia for longer when needed whenever they met in the portico or at the table.

—

He sat behind his desk, concentrating on the parchment in front of him, and the verses he had scribbled were looking back at him. He thought of a statement that would have made the line rhyme with the previous one.

He sat there in the glow of dozens of small candles and oil lamps that were spread around the room. A gentle current of cooling air was coming from the side. It was not wind, but the work of a slave who stood several feet away from him, delicately wielding the fan.

He came up with the statement, and moments later transferred it onto the parchment. Octavian was neither Hesiod nor Alkeios; he did not consider himself a rival to the great wordsmiths, but he took the creation of every verse seriously.

He caught a female figure with a corner of his eye. At first, he thought it was Mother; Atia had the skill to glide into the room unexpectedly and unnoticed like a Fury.

Another careful glance proved him wrong; it was Octavia. Initially, he pretended he had not noticed her, giving her an opportunity to stroll beside the book shelves. Still, her presence was enough to distract him even from the most sensual verse.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked, his eyes on the parchment for that moment.

"Not really," she said.

He let her explore the room on her own. Octavia might not have noticed, but, from then on, his gaze was actually on her. She bent over, looking into the empty space of the drawer. Octavian, in turn, almost let his guard down when he allowed himself to get too distracted by this site. His gaze fell back on the table just in time.

A snap of fingers ended the silence as Octavia ordered the slave to leave by merely addressing him. Before Octavian knew it, the siblings were left alone. The air in the room suddenly became hotter.

Surprised, he asked for an explanation and his sister gave him one: the slave was apparently giving her looks.

The screech of a moving chair was loud enough to be heard in any part of the spacious room as the young man stood up.

"I'll call for another one," he said, ready to make a short trek to the slaves' quarters of the house.

"Don't, it's nice to be alone," her soft voice made him stop after just one step and turn around, "isn't it?"

"I suppose," he said, confused.

An impression had already formed: something seemed awkward in Octavia's behavior. And this impression got more and more solid with every step she made. The young woman lying down on her side on his bed looked like the final piece of evidence.

"Come lie down with me," she said, patting the spot next to her. Her voice sounded both innocently and seductively at the same time.

He was no longer confused—he was dumbstruck. His thoughts, which were usually in order, were scattered like the logs of a raft that had fallen apart in the middle of the ocean.

"Lie down with you? Why?" this was the only thing he managed to say.

"Because you would like it," she responded casually.

"Why?" he reached the point of repeating the same question.

"Why not?"

Many unusual things had happened in this house, but the absurdity of this night went against everything Octavian had grown accustomed to.

"I can think of several reasons," the sensual part of him spoke out.

But even whilst he was uttering those words, another part of him, the emotional part, wanted him to lie down.

Octavia smirked and reminded him of the times she woke in the middle of the night to find him tuck to her under the covers of the bed when he was still a child. He, in turn mentioned his impression of those innocent incidents.

Octavia did not say anything after that and remained in her seductive pose. Octavian had only several moments to think over his next move. The hot night that had filled the room found a way into his lungs. There was no warm feeling in his chest; he was practically burning from the inside. He knew he had to decline Octavia's unexpected advances. She was not driven by love and longing. He saw the mysterious intentions in the source of her strange behavior; he could observe them like a floor mosaic, but he was unable to decipher them. He came up to the bed.

Octavia sat up. Their eyes met; she felt his deep, thoughtful gaze on her. He knew she was not able to read his thoughts by his expression; even he was unsure where his thoughts really were that moment.

"Pretend," she said.

"I have no skill at pretending."

"I'm embarrassed now. I thought you wanted me," she looked away for a second; it looked like she was about to blush.

And she was right about the latter. He wanted her; wanted her so much and for so long. But what was going on in those moments was unfair. She did not want him; she wanted something from him. He even had a guess. And he…he loved her in his own way and did not want to take advantage of her.

But there was also his desire, a force as uncontrollable as the primordial Chaos that existed before the Five Epochs. It urged him to follow the route that seemed so sweet.

"You're a man now, aren't you?" Octavia gently took him by the hand, "you can take what you want," her words agreed with his desires.

And so he did.

Octavian leaned down. Their mouths met in a kiss. Time itself stopped for the young man as he became accustomed to the sweet taste of Octavia's lips. He never kissed a woman like that before, so he dedicated as much vigor as he could into it. The kiss ended when its time came; Octavian pulled away, but he was unable to take his eyes off his sister. Then, without thinking anything over, he leaned in for another kiss. The second time held more passion in it. It was so strong that Octavian's senses were getting carried away in its flow. Several moments later, he was already lying on his back, feeling Octavia's weight on him as she tickled his neck with her kisses. Their clothes seemed to slip off them on their own accord. The two sank in the bed sheets, and only then the night became the most awkward and unforgettable in Octavian's memory…

Later, he lay on the pillows in the glow of the same candles and lamps, gazing at the darkness-coated ceiling without any aim. Octavia lay on her side beside him, looking into nowhere as she delved in her own thoughts.

"Brother, tell me something," her quiet was interrupted the silence.

He did not want this dialogue to take place, but it was unavoidable. He laid out the path by questioning her motives, mixing the topic of virtue, traditions, and incest.

"You and I are above this petty social convention," she attempted to get him off her trail., but he knew she was lying.

"But incest is not only wrong by convention, it's wrong in essence," he said.

It was a really strange experience. On one hand, he agreed with this notion. But on the other, he yearned to have his sister. It was absurd. The whole incident felt like a piece from a play written by some Athenian playwright. Only he could not if it was supposed to be tragedy, comedy, or satire.

"Why else are there so many monsters and idiots among the children of incest?" he finished his miniature monologue.

"Don't," his last statement shook Octavia, making her sit up.

"Don't worry, it's unlikely I've seeded you, not with the moon in transit," he said.

He made several more statements, referring to her character and deducting that all of this had something to do with her recent interest in Caesar's health.

His words alone, even devoid of any offence, were enough to break Octavia down. The young woman fell back into bed, sobbing and repeating the same words: "What have I done."

The sight of Octavia shuddering in her distress was slowly and painfully cutting his heart.

"What have you done?" he asked, gently putting his palm on her warm bare shoulder.

Octavia looked at him, her eyes filled with tears, and squeezed his hand.

"Promise," she said, swallowing another sob, "promise you won't tell Mother."

—

Octavian kept his word, but the next morning too was awkward. Atia found out, no doubt through one of the slaves.

His plummet to the ground under Mother's slap and the stinging in his cheek testified to that.

"You fucked your sister, you little pervert!" Atia hissed at him before mentioning her rights.

The whip clutched in her hand made her look as menacing as Hecate, the fearsome goddess of dark sorcery. He was sure that the instrument of flagellation Atia had intended for Octavia was about to go down on him.

But Octavia snatched the whip away. After several threats and accusations, the quarrel died down.

Still sprawled in the middle of the footpath that ran through the garden, he watched the two women sit on the bench silently.

Octavia's relationship with Servilia was the cause of that morning's misadventures. But Atia's mind, which sometimes appeared to function in mysterious ways, did not give much attention to what happened between her children the night before.

The Fates were yet to weave this story.


End file.
